Page 26 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

When he managed to drag his eyes away from his most prized possession, he found her pale, her face tight with shock.

He knew without doubt that she had read it – and was going to read further, for why else would she carry it about the house?

Perhaps she read it with her sister, laughing at him – or, even worse… Wickham.

He was, after all, familiar with her younger sisters.

Who was to say that he had not charmed Miss Elizabeth as easily as Miss Lydia?

He was seemingly irresistible to women, a mystery Darcy had never quite worked out, for insincerity seemed to come off him in waves.

Flattery was a powerful weapon, and one Wickham wielded with far more skill than his sword.

“Darcy?” Bingley asked.

Miss Elizabeth took that opportunity to walk away. He did not reply to Bingley, instead following her. Her pace quickened, and he stopped. What sort of a man chased a woman in her home?! How could he explain such barbarity away?

“Miss Elizabeth,” he called.

She ignored him, slipping through a door and closing it swiftly behind her.

“What is the matter with you?” Bingley asked, suddenly behind him. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” he replied. “But I have found my missing diary.”

“Here?” Bingley asked. “You lost it before we came here.”

“Oh, it is here – in the hands of Miss Elizabeth.”

“You are not serious!”

“Am I known for my sense of humour?” Darcy asked in a dull voice. “I am certain. I would know it anywhere. She has it.”

“She is to accompany us on our walk around the garden. Ask her for it to be returned to you. Miss Elizabeth is an obliging girl. I am sure this is all some terrible misunderstanding. Perhaps she does not even know what it is she possesses.”

“A misunderstanding,” Darcy echoed. “I am sure.”

He glanced towards the closed door, picturing Miss Elizabeth hiding behind it.

Was she at this very moment laughing at him?

Did she mock each word he had written? Did she laugh at his sister’s misfortune, detailed so graphically within those pages that it would cause ruin should it reach London society?

Perhaps she and Wickham plotted that very thing.

His eyes burned, his throat tight with betrayal.

The words he had written about her…

“Come, Darcy. Let us wait in the garden for them.”

He trudged out behind Bingley. They stood by the front door, and Darcy could not bring himself to speak as Bingley made idle chatter simply to fill the silence. He was not sure if he would ever be able to speak again.

Some time later, Miss Bennet emerged, accompanied by Miss Mary.

“Where is Miss Elizabeth?”

“She asks for your forgiveness, but she is not well.”

“I hope she is quite alright,” Bingley said, his forehead creasing with concern.

“Yes, she is just a little under the weather. Shall we walk, gentleman?”

Miss Mary fell in step with him quickly, her arms folded and her jaw tight.

It was some comfort to know someone on this absurd walk was as uncomfortable as he was.

They did not speak a word to one another, walking in miserable circles around the garden as Miss Bennet and Bingley spoke excitedly.

Darcy’s eyes wandered out to the countryside.

There, he saw someone most familiar to him rapidly retreating from Longbourn. In fact, she was running. Her wild hair blew behind her as she slipped into the distance.

“Excuse me, Miss Mary,” he said with a brief bow. “I must return to Netherfield at once.”

“Darcy?” Bingley turned. “Where are you going?”

“I…I have correspondence I must write to my steward. Excuse me. A good day, ladies.”

He passed through the garden gate without hesitation, his steps directed away from the house, his gaze set firmly upon the distant fields. Miss Elizabeth had already departed, but he was resolved - he would reach her. He could not allow matters to remain as they were.

His pace quickened, urgency propelling him almost to a run.

The path stretched long before him, but he gave no thought to the distance, nor to the ache in his chest. After some minutes - ten, perhaps more - he caught sight of her at last: a solitary figure ahead, walking swiftly across the golden field, the wind tugging at her skirts. She was unaware she was being pursued.

“Miss Elizabeth!” he called out, breathless.

She turned.

He saw it immediately - the diary clutched in her hands.

“Mr Darcy, I - ”

“Do you think I would not recognise my own diary?” he demanded, striding toward her. “Did you believe I would not do everything in my power to reclaim it? You pretended illness to avoid me - to avoid this . Why?”

“I…” Her voice faltered.

“When did you take it? How did you steal it from me?”

“I did not steal it!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of indignation and guilt. “It was on the ground near the carriage as we left Netherfield. I - I ought to have left it there, I should have told you had dropped it, but…”

“But you took it,” he said, his voice low and trembling. “And you read it.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me - why do you have it now? Were you bringing it to someone? Are you to deliver it to him ?”

“To who?”

“To Wickham ,” he bit out. “Tell me, Miss Elizabeth, what lies has he fed you? What promises has he made in exchange for what you found in those pages?”

“I have not spoken to Mr Wickham since the day we first encountered him,” she said, the words rushing out. “I had already read - I knew . I made Lydia swear never to speak to him again. I know what he is capable of, that he is the worst kind of scoundrel.”

Darcy stilled. His chest rose and fell as he searched her face.

“I knew at once that I had invaded something private. But if I had not… if I had not seen your words, Georgiana’s suffering might have been repeated in my own home. I could not let that happen.”

“I am glad, then,” he said slowly, “that something good might come from what I once wished undone.”

“I meant to return it,” she said. “But it would not leave me. The words - your words - they stayed in my mind. I was changed when I found that page. That first page…burned at the edges. I thought it was a letter, at first. Then I saw the script, and I knew that nobody could possibly write a letter like that. And I - I could not stop wondering if it was about me.”

He stepped forward.

“I meant to see that destroyed. I…I had drunk too much, and I must have left before ensuring that it was burnt.

“It is wrong, but I could not stop thinking about those words. I have read it over and over again, Mr Darcy. Sometimes, I see the slope of your script when I close my eyes. Forgive me for saying so, but it did. I needed to know. Needed to be certain. I told myself I wanted the truth, but truthfully…”

He did not know what to say. Her words trailed away, and they stood in the cold winter air, staring at one another. When he could bring himself to speak, all eloquence escaped him.

“What?” he asked, stunned.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified by her own confession.

“I told myself I hated you. But every word I read, every thought you confessed - it changed something in me. Perhaps it is my own vanity, for I have never been wanted or desired, but I would like to believe I am not so easily swayed by pretty words.”

He took another step toward her, close now. Too close. She could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body like a storm barely restrained.

“And now?” he asked, voice rough.

“I do not know,” she whispered. “I only know I cannot think of you without feeling like I might come undone.”

He reached for the diary, but instead of taking it, his fingers brushed hers. A touch, brief and scorching. Her breath hitched.

“You should not say such things,” he said. “Not unless you mean them.”

“I have never said anything I did not mean,” she returned, trembling beneath his gaze.

The diary fell, forgotten, to the grass between them.

And then - he kissed her .

There was nothing careful in it. No ceremony.

No polite restraint. It was the kind of kiss born of months of silence and fury, of pride wounded and hearts exposed.

His hand came to the curve of her jaw, anchoring her as his mouth met hers - urgent, reverent, desperate.

She gasped, and he drank it in. Her hands, once clenched at her sides, found the folds of his coat, gripping as if to steady herself.

When they parted, both breathless, her eyes were wide, astonished.

“That was…” she managed.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely.

He felt her fingers curl around his. He could not say who had initiated the second kiss, for it seemed to happen of its own accord. Her lips, petal soft and impossibly made for his own, crushed against him.

“We…I have not…” Miss Elizabeth broke from him. “Do not think you are forgiven, sir. You wrote impossibly rude things about my family, and…”

“And I stand by every word that I said. Your sisters lack manners and your mother is brash. Your father does not keep them in hand. Can you deny such a thing is true, when I have seen you roll your eyes at their behaviour on multiple occasions?”

“I am allowed!” she protested. “They are my family. I love them – you hold no such endearments.”

“I do for you.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“No, you do not! Mr Darcy, you are mistaken!"

“When you were at Netherfield, I looked for you in every room. I made hopeless excuses that I may pass time in your company. I lingered each time I passed your sister’s door in case you had need of me.

I wanted you so desperately I could think of nothing else.

I have never felt like this, never in all of my life.

I fear I will go mad with it. It is illogical, it is… It is…”